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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25152013">the city lights can wait</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/vestigialwords/pseuds/beccabuchanans'>beccabuchanans (vestigialwords)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>City Lights [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Triple Frontier (2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(OR IS IT?!?), Dirty Talk, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Sexual Frustration, Vaginal Fingering, graphic description of combat injuries (see notes), laughing during sex, riding it like you stole it, submissive Pope</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 03:35:05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,197</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25152013</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/vestigialwords/pseuds/beccabuchanans</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“When can we go back to Bogotá, Santi?” You groan, slumping into the rickety barstool and dropping your head into your arms.</p><p>“Why? What’s in Bogotá?” Santiago waves down the bartender, who cracks open another bottle of beer and puts it in front of you. </p><p>“Ideally?” You pick your head up and take a long drag from the bottle, draining nearly half the weak brew in a single draw. “Someone who’ll fuck me.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Santiago "Pope" Garcia/Original Female Character(s), Santiago "Pope" Garcia/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>City Lights [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1822051</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>40</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>the city lights can wait</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>If the combat injuries thing concerns you, skip the paragraph that begins <i>you remember that one well...</i></p><p>Originally posted on my tumblr <a href="https://mandoplease.tumblr.com/post/619657491396100096/the-city-lights-can-wait-pairing-santiago-pope">HERE</a></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“When can we go back to Bogotá, Santi?” You groan, slumping into the rickety barstool and dropping your head into your arms.</p><p>Your story wasn’t exactly uncommon these days. The U.S. Army had chewed you up and spat you out with an honorable discharge; Thank You For Your Service; Goodbye; please don’t ask us for anything. Turns out your combat medic skill set meant fuck-all in the civilian world and you’d been forced to pick up work as an EMT in some backwater town, applying to military contracting firms, hoping for one that didn’t set off every warning bell in your brain. When Santiago came around with the offer to work for him, you had leapt at the chance. </p><p>I<em>’ve seen you drive. I’ve seen you shoot. Most importantly, I’ve seen you subdue a coked-up Frankie. I want—no, I</em> need <em>you on my team</em>.</p><p>You had crossed paths with Pope and the guys before, though they had been Redfly and the boys back then. You couldn’t begin to estimate how many stitches you’d sewn into their skin; how many dislocated joints you’d reset; how many times they’d cursed your entire family tree for refusing to let them fall asleep, their addled brains reeling from concussion. </p><p>The number he’d put on the table had been more than twice your next highest offer, and what he <em>actually </em>paid you was at least twice that again. </p><p>Still, times like this make you wonder if it’s worth it. </p><p>“Why? What’s in Bogotá?” Santiago waves down the bartender, who cracks open another bottle of beer and puts it in front of you. </p><p>“Ideally?” You pick your head up and take a long drag from the bottle, draining nearly half the weak brew in a single draw. “Someone who’ll fuck me.”</p><p>Santiago bursts out laughing in the seat next to you, and you can’t help but gawk at the way his Adam’s apple bobs around his peals of laughter, at the grey creeping in at his temples, the way his skin crinkles at the corner of his eyes. And this? <em>This right here</em>; the fact that you’re noticing this shit is exactly why you long for a big city, safety in the anonymity of a stranger who means absolutely nothing more to you than a quick screw.</p><p>“Look, I know we’re here on business but damn it, we’ve been here for <em>months</em> and I can’t get a man in this piece of shit town to <em>look </em>at me, let alone let me ride his dick.”</p><p>A moment of silence passes as the smile fades slowly from his face. </p><p>“I have a dick,” he says, tossing the words out with a shrug, his tone so goddamn casual as he takes a draw from his own bottle.</p><p>“You have a dick,” you repeat the words back to him slowly, incredulous. </p><p>“Yeah,” he shrugs, his voice almost artificially light. “I just figure, everyone in town has seen us out together by now. Probably my fault no one’s willing to step up. Doesn’t have to be a thing. You got an itch that needs scratching and I ain’t opposed to being abused for a good cause.” </p><p>You snort. “How noble of you.”  </p><p>“You seen yourself lately, honey? Nothing selfless about it.” He shrugs. “Look, say no and I’ll forget this whole conversation, just… putting it out there.” </p><p>It would be lying to say you’d never thought about it. There’s no denying he’s a handsome man, and if even half of the heckling the boys gave him was true, he’d be worth your while. You follow the way his throat works at another draw from his beer, how he picks at the label wrapped around the bottle, avoiding your eyes. He’s nervous, and for some absurd reason that’s what convinces you. </p><p>“Okay.” </p><p>“Okay?” A wide smile cracks across his face as he turns back to you. “As in, <em>okay</em>, okay?”</p><p>“Yeah, okay.” </p><p>Apparently you don’t have to—well, okay, you <em>did </em>have to tell him twice. Santiago grabs you by the arm and slaps an American twenty dollar bill on the counter. It’s grossly overpaying—could probably cover your next three tabs at least but you get the feeling waiting for change is the last thing on his mind. </p><p>Your apartment is a five minute walk from the bar, but the second you’re on the street, Pope breaks into a run and you follow suit, managing to cover the distance in less than three. By the time you make it up the stairs to the third floor landing separating the two units you’ve rented, you’re both breathing heavily. You fumble with your keys, haven’t even gotten the door to your apartment open yet and he’s already pressing open-mouthed kisses along the back of your neck, hands pawing at your waist under your tee-shirt. </p><p>The second the door closes behind you, you turn to face him on tiptoes, crashing your lips to his in a desperate kiss. His grip on your waist is firm as he leans forward, losing his balance slightly as he tries to push you back into your apartment and toe his shoes off at the same time. You take advantage of his distraction, stepping away from him. He lets out a helpless note of protest but you immediately yank the soft cotton of your shirt over your own head and unhook the bra clasp at your back, let it all fall to the floor. He stops dead in his tracks.</p><p>“Damn,” he exhales. “You’ve been hiding all that under fatigues this whole time?”</p><p>“I haven’t worn fatigues in years, Pope.”</p><p>“You know what I’m saying. Jesus Christ, look at you.” </p><p>He takes a step closer and ghosts his hands up your sides, almost as though he’s afraid to touch you, like you’ll disappear if he does. A shudder tears through you, starting where his fingers hover over your skin and crackling down to the ends of your limbs, ricocheting in a furious storm of sensation, before landing deep in your belly. Oblivious to your distress, he stares down at your chest as his thumbs graze the curve under your breasts. </p><p>“Santi—” You’re not particularly proud of the desperation in your voice as you tug at the hem of his shirt. </p><p>He shakes himself. “Right.” </p><p>He grabs your face, his palms clutching at your cheeks, fingers curling around your skull to draw you toward him as he closes the distance between you. His lips capture yours in a bruising kiss, his tongue darting out against you, hesitantly, until you open your mouth in response. That smallest permission is all he needs to dive into you, press his tongue into your mouth with a moan that settles between heavy between your legs.</p><p>You don’t have to direct him to your bedroom. The number of nights Pope had fallen asleep on the lumpy couch in the tiny space that passes for a living room, buried under stacks of reconnaissance notes, he knows exactly how to steer around your furniture, how to lead you back into the shadows of your apartment without once breaking contact with your lips.</p><p>You plant your hands on his chest and shove. He stumbles back, knees giving way to the edge of the bed, settling at the foot of the mattress with a huff. You tear through the buttons of his shirt and run your fingers through the dark hair you find smattered across his chest. It’s your turn to slow down this time as you duck your head to kiss the puckered skin on his arm from an enemy bullet almost a year ago. He had refused to go to the hospital and you hadn’t been able to get all the shards out, monitored him for infection like a hawk. Your fingers dance across a jagged line over his collarbone from a smashed beer bottle earned during one of his less reputable outings. Then your eyes drop down to his abdomen, and you trace down a long scar running from his belly to his pecs.</p><p>You remember that one well. You remember straddling his chest in the backseat of a humvee, uniform soaked in his blood, two gloved fingers literally inside his wound to pinch off the bleeding; a piece of ugly twisted shrapnel wedged in his chest; smacking him in the face—<em>fight, bitch!</em>—to keep him conscious; screaming at Catfish to <em>drive faster</em> because you weren’t sure he would make it. </p><p>“You saved my life that day,” he says with a small smile, shrugging the shirt off his shoulders. He buries his hands into your hair and pulls you into his lap. Your legs settle on either side of him, straddling his thighs. “Don’t remember much else. Remember that.” </p><p>“No,” you muse, running your thumb up the crooked scar. “The surgeon saved your life.” </p><p>“Never would have made it to the operating room without you, honey.”</p><p>You hum, letting your hand drop away from the mangled skin. His hands tug gently at your scalp and you tilt your head back to give him access to your throat. He nips your jaw and mouths down your neck, the soft skin over your pulse, and along your collarbone. You arch up against his face as his lips close around a nipple. His tongue swipes out, broad over the hardening bud and he lets go of your hair to cup your breasts from underneath. He turns his attention to your other breast, this time catching you between his teeth, worrying the nub between them. You don’t bite back on your pleasure—there’s no point in being coy, not with Pope, not after what you said to him at the bar. You let the moans and gasps tumble freely from you, whimpering when he pulls away to bury his forehead between your breasts.</p><p>“God, sweetheart, those noises,” he groans into your skin. “Wanna be buried in your cunt so bad.” </p><p>You choke on a moan as you grind down into his lap, chasing any friction you can get through the thick layers of denim between you. His cock strains against the confines of his jeans and you take full advantage, rocking shamelessly against him. He groans, the vibrations shaking through your entire body, and you’re more than ready for him; you <em>need him now</em>. </p><p>“Pants?”</p><p>“Pants,” he agrees. </p><p>There’s no way to get jeans off that is both expedient and sexy, so you opt for the former, taking a step back from him. Pope throws himself backward on the bed, hips thrust up toward the ceiling as he pushes both his pants and boxers off. You shove your jeans down to your knees along with your underwear. The first leg poses no problem, but the cuff of your right leg refuses to unhook from your ankle, and the force you use to yank the denim over your heel throws you off balance. He notices and launches himself forward in an attempt to steady you, but he overcompensates on his recovery, toppling the both of you backward onto the bed. A moment of shocked silence passes, both of you too stunned to move.</p><p>Your eyes meet and suddenly you’re laughing, just lying on the bed next to one another, <em>fucking losing it,</em> stark naked except for the fact that both of you have a pair of pants hanging from your ankles. It’s ridiculous, astoundingly unsexy, but exactly the sort of hitch that seems to plague any plan you’ve ever cooked up together.</p><p>After a moment, the laughter lulls back into comfortable silence, and his hand reaches out for you. He caresses gentle up your arm, then up to your face, a soft smile pulling at the corners of his lips. He stops just under your chin and the hungry animal inside you roars back to life. </p><p>You push him back into your mattress by his shoulders and throw a leg over his stomach, stretching behind you to unhook his jeans from his ankles, and then dispatch your own. His hands gravitate to your hips, drag downward, squeezing handfuls of your thighs.</p><p>He lets go of you to prop himself up on his elbows and you can feel his abs shift under you, and it sends a thrill through you. On the battlefield, he’s an absolute killer; a soldier pushing his body to the brutal limit, teetering on the edge of unleashing hell with every movement he makes. You’re not even close to defenseless, but if he decided to overpower you, you’re honestly not sure whether you could fight him off. So when you feel the raw strength coiling beneath your core and how he’s using exactly none of it to resist the way you grind against his stomach, it’s a head rush. You rock yourself backward until you can feel the curve of his cock pressed against your ass. He looks stunned, staring slack jawed down at the trail of wetness you leave along his stomach. </p><p>“God, you’re fucking soaked honey, <em>holy shit</em>,” he mutters, shifting his weight again to free one of his hands. </p><p>He draws two of his fingers through your folds, spreading them and your entire body jerks when he rubs a tight circle against your clit, and another. His eyes go wide as you thrash on top of him, almost as though he’s surprised to be able to pull such a response from you. Then he pushes back, <em>back</em>. His fingers are thick as he enters you, so much heavier than your own—all you’ve had for <em>months</em>, so this is incredible. He crooks them toward himself, strokes gently into the soft flesh of you until he finds it, that hidden spot that makes you cry out.</p><p>You collapse forward, hands landing on either side of his head as you grind back against him, gasping. Your voice escapes your throat in squeaks and tiny groans while you ride his fingers, climbing higher in desperation. It’s not nearly enough but still, it’s glorious—until he pulls his hand away.</p><p>“Santiago—” you barely recognize your voice as it rasps out of your throat.</p><p>He stares at your slick coating his hands and then sinks his fingers into his own mouth. He pulls them out with an obscene pop and gapes up at you in disbelief. “And you taste like heaven, <em>fuck</em>.” </p><p>You rock against his cock, letting the length of him slip through your wet folds, grind your clit against his pelvic bone. Every roll of your hips sends a wave of molten pleasure washing through you. Each time you back up on him, the bloom in your belly unfurls further into your extremities. It’s torture, but it’s one that you could endure for hours. Santiago, apparently, feels different.</p><p>“Woman, stop teasing and put me inside you,” he groans, bucking up against you when you grind back, throwing his head back. “<em>Please</em>.”</p><p>How could you ever be expected to resist such an enticing request?</p><p>It’s been some time since you last had a man inside you, but he feels even better than you expected as you sink down his length. You wiggle your hips, getting used to the stretch of him, reveling in the gentle shocks shooting down your spine. It feels like floating, like bliss, like coming home after a long rotation, like a million other <em>right </em>things you don’t feel like examining at the moment.</p><p>His eyes are blown black as he stares down at the union of your bodies, as you drag yourself up and down slowly, experimentally, watching himself disappear into you inch by inch. </p><p>“Shit, baby, how do you feel so goddamn good?” He reaches out to curve his palms around your hips and wedges his thumbs snug against your clit. Your breath leaves you in a high whine as you drop yourself down on him, harder this time, sparks flashing at the edges of your vision when you bottom out against his fingers. You’re split entirely open and when you flex around him, you swear you feel every vein, every ridge of him as he throbs inside you. You lift yourself up, then drop back down, impaling yourself on the solid mass of him again and again, and it’s intoxicating, exquisite, transcendent.</p><p>He watches you unmoving, lips parted in open admiration. “That’s right—use me, sweetheart.”</p><p>Your breaths catch in your throat. It’s been a long day, week, <em>month</em>, and your tired legs shake with the exertion of riding him but some masochistic part of you musters the strength to keep going. Your voice bursts out of you in a whine as your chin drops to your chest, hands splayed across his strong chest for leverage. With each thrust you pull nearly all the way off him before dropping down hard, circling your hips around to grind against his thumbs the whole time. </p><p>“Chase it, gorgeous.”</p><p>He watches you with wide eyes, his gaze flashing between watching your tits bounce above him, your hips pressing hungrily into his hands, your face twisted in bliss, as though he’s studying, memorizing every single detail of you.</p><p>Brazen, wanton, bold.</p><p>It’s the sexiest you’ve ever felt.</p><p>“Take it from me honey, take everything from me, it’s all yours, <em>holy shit</em>.” </p><p>His voice is so fucking unfair, the rasp of it burrows into your skull and your brain is on goddamn fire from the warmth of him inside you, the way his words seep into every crack inside you, his body a powerful solid mass beneath you. You feel your walls start to flutter around him, your pace faltering and his grip at your waist tightens, starts guiding you up and down the moment your pace fails.</p><p>Then suddenly he throws his head back against your pillows, arching up toward you. The cords of muscle in his neck strain, eyes wide, desperate and wild.</p><p>“Sweetheart,” he pleads, his voice high and shredded. “Please—I’m gonna need you to come soon—I can’t hold on much longer, baby. Please, <em>please</em>.”</p><p>You slam your body down on him, not even trying to mask the wild wails of ecstasy tumbling from your mouth as you press his chest down into the mattress and angle his cock toward the spot inside you that sends wildfire raging through your entire body. You ride him straight up to the razor’s edge and fling yourself overboard. Your release hits like lightning, turning you into glass and <em>shattering</em>, your entire body seizing and wracking with violent shudders that are almost painful—except it’s not, it’s divine and <em>devastating</em>. </p><p>Beneath you, Santiago whimpers. His hands clamp tight around your frozen hips and he bucks wildly, cock ripping through your core, driving your peak back up to impossible heights.</p><p>You feel him spill inside you with a ruined shout before you even come down. </p><p>You collapse next to him, muscles finally giving out on you. He wraps his arms around you, pulls you to his chest as you both catch your breath. He nuzzles his face into your hair, his hand drifting absently up and down your back. His warm voice rumbles next to your ear.</p><p>“Still want to go to Bogatá?” </p><p>“Shut the fuck up.”</p><p>Bogatá can wait. </p>
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